


They Say of Wintering

by katajainen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (because that deserves to be a tag), (or I try), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Fluff, Injury Recovery, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Rating May Change, Relationship Tags to Be Added - Freeform, Slow Burn, Tafl (viking chess), Wintering, injuries, Óin-rated injury description
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: They say of wintering that it is like to the refining of ore, or the distilling of strong spirits; that it is a good time to perfect a craft or to hone a plan, but also a time when a heart can grow to feel stronger, sharper and clearer. And not unlike strong spirits, the latter can be a cause to either merriment or grief.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: I have a very good idea where this is going, and the route it's going to take, but no idea how many chapters that will make. Guess that's what posting a wip is.
> 
> Once again, many many thanks to [saraste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saraste) for the beta and hand-holding.
> 
> And to [pangur_pangur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pangur_pangur) for the many encouraging words :3

There is a voice.

Fíli struggles to make out words, but it is as if he’s listening to someone speaking underwater. He’s wracked with cold of a sudden, a surge of violent shivers passes through his body and the voice fades. But he knows it, he knows the voice, that much he’s sure of when the darkness drags him under once more.

‘...gazed over the waters hiding Durin’s crown in their midst, and put hand in hand and thereby plighted their troth…’

It’s a fine voice to listen to, soft but clear. His eyes feel too heavy to open, he can but make out an amber glow between half-closed lids before the low quiet words fade back into a warm murmur.

‘...came the white wolves, lean and fierce with all the hunger of Winter, and at their heels the orcs, clad in crude steel and bearing an ill-forged blade each. The rearguard was of the cold-drakes, few in number, but–’

The words stop as Fíli stirs, and he feels disappointed of a sudden. The light pierces his skull and he gasps, turns his head away.

‘Fíli?’ There’s a screech of something moving against stone, a softer thud. ‘Darn it– I’m sorry, the light–’ Fíli keeps his eyes closed tight. There’s a soft touch on his arm. ‘Fíli?’ It’s the same voice that had been quietly reading aloud just now. He blinks and the light feels easier now. He can almost… he squints and the room’s soft edges sharpen. He sees auburn hair shifting to red-gold in the low lamplight, brown eyes dark in a pale face.

He tries to speak, but his mouth is dry as grit, and the deep breath he takes only sets him coughing instead. The pain stabs sharp at his side and the first sound he manages is a groan.

The edge of the cup is cool and wet against his mouth, the trickle of water between his lips sweet and welcome. Fíli tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but Ori – he’d lost sight of him in the fray, and there he is now – slips an arm around his shoulders for support, and Fíli wants to tell him to stop, to tell him he doesn’t need to be coddled like this, and he would, if only he could get a single breath without coughing. He curls his hands around the cup instead – both of them, a bit slow and weak, but all fingers and bits accounted for – leans his head onto the offered arm – warm soft cloth, not mail, so it’s been some time – and drinks greedily.

‘How–’ he swallows, tries again. ‘How long?’

‘Since the battle?’ Ori slips his arm free and leaves Fíli leaning back on the pillow again – and that’s another marvel; since when were there any pillows in the mountain, even lumpy ones? Yet there is nowhere else this small room could be, with the clean barrel-vaulted lines of the ceiling falling off into the shadow outside the circle of lamplight.

‘A week and four days today.’ says Ori. ‘You don’t remember?’

Fíli slowly shakes his head. ‘It’s– I’m not sure.’ It feels he’s not awake enough to tell dream from memory yet.

‘ You– you had a fever… you weren’t quite here the times you woke.’ Ori sits on the edge of the bed, the empty cup cradled in his hands. ‘Except just now.’ The smile is small but Fíli feels his own lips quirk up in return – until a fearful thought sends his heart falling and leaping in his chest.

‘Kíli?’ he asks before the idea has time to fully form. He had seen his brother still standing. Bleeding but upright.

‘He’s fine. Sleeping in the room right over. We’ve taken turns watching you, but I can–’

‘Thorin?’ Because now he must know, even if he thinks that would have been the first thing Ori had told him if… that Ori would have looked at him different from the start if…

‘With Kíli. He can’t come over, obviously, but I can take any message–’ Fíli holds up a hand, his breath leaving him in long relieved sigh. There is a King under the Mountain, but it’s not yet him. Not today.

‘Sorry, babbling.’ Ori stands up. ‘I need to go and tell Óin you’re properly awake.’

‘I didn’t mind; that was good to hear.’ And _oh_ , it was; so good Fíli can’t help smiling. Does not want to stop smiling.

‘I–’ Ori looks away, and even in the low light Fíli thinks he sees him flush.

‘You were reading… I heard you reading, earlier.’

‘You did?’ Ori steals a glance back at him. ‘There wasn’t much else to do, and I– I thought why not– Óin said you might hear us even if you couldn’t answer, so– you heard?’

‘Some.’ Fíli replies. ‘Cold-drakes?’

‘Well, yes, it was–’ Ori casts a look around them, makes a small distressed sound and retrieves a book from the floor. He turns it in his hands, brushing off the cover. ‘The Library– I’ve only got around to the history section, and well…’

Fíli catches himself in time and does not say he does not care what Ori read, if he only could listen. It would be the truth, but that is precisely what stays his tongue. There are too many wrong ways those true words could be taken, and it is suddenly important for him to avoid any unfortunate misunderstanding.

So he keeps his quiet, and there’s this strange tongue-tied moment when neither of them quite looks at the other until Ori clears his throat and says he really should go get Óin. But then he stops at the door and turns to look at Fíli.

‘You were the last one,’ he says quickly, quietly, ‘the Company made it, every single one of us; but you were the last one we feared for.’ And then he’s gone.

That day, charging out through the Front Gate, over the tumbledown remains of their newly-built wall, Fíli had thought he would not see another sunrise. He had meant to lay down his life for the sake of his brother and his king, and had gone down knowing he had bought at least one of them a handful of breaths, if not more.

But now he finds himself still breathing. And the Mountain is theirs.

In all their time on the road he has not dared to think this far. He hopes Thorin has. He _knows_ Balin has.

He’s had a fool’s dream or two, just like everyone else; but he has not dared to tempt fate by seriously considering what he would do with himself if they ever reclaimed the Mountain. In a way, he has not needed to: he knows what Fíli son of Dís daughter of Thraín, first in line to the throne, will do. That path has been set out clear enough for him. But Fíli son of Víli, a dwarf of eighty-three come next spring, feels as if left staggering without a light or map, with no notion what he will do with his remaining years, now that he seems to have more for the counting.

Then the door bangs to the wall with a deafening clang and Fíli barely has time for a breath before the air is crushed out of him.

‘I _never_ ,’ his brother repeats over and over, muffled against his shoulder, ‘I was _never_ so scared in my life.’ And Fíli’s shirt is warm and wet against his skin as he holds Kíli, as they hold onto one another once more, tight enough for his chest to twinge again, long enough for the pain to have him gasping. But he still won’t let go until he’s told to.

‘Mind his ribs, you fool! Won’t have him woken up just for you to make him puncture a lung.’

And it is, surprisingly, Kíli who loosens his hold first, quickly stepping aside for Óin. The healer peers intently at him and lifts the lamp so close Fíli has to squint even if the light does not quite sting as much anymore. He’s checked for fever and rolled over for a look at his bandages. He remembers the spear that went through his left shoulder – one of the last things he does remember clearly – but has no idea what happened to the knee on the same side, except that it throbs whenever he but shifts his leg. And there had been any amount of half-dodged blows to explain the wide bands rolled tight over and over around his chest over aching ribs.

‘You’ll live. This time. But you’re far from whole yet.’ Without a warning, Fíli is poked at the chest with the sharp end of a tin horn, and even under the layered bandages, he flinches. ‘You’ll do as you’re told if you want to keep all your bits and blood where they belong, you hear me? For one, you won’t be putting any weight on that leg, or you’ll wish I _had_ taken it off. And you’ll eat–’ Óin turns his head and bellows ‘Where is that food?’ over his shoulder– ‘you’ll eat what I say and when I say.’

Fíli nods in self-defence.

There’s food, eventually, and more people; Fíli tucks in a slow spoonful after another and listens to Bilbo complain that if he goes grey before his time, it’s for witnessing one foolhardy dwarven stunt too many. Fíli smiles and nods and hears only one word out of three. How could plain porridge ever taste this good? (Kíli complains he didn’t get any honey in his in the morning – Bilbo tells him that’s what rationing means.) Their hobbit does not look like he’s going grey, Fíli thinks, but although his bruises and scratches are fading, there are shadows under his eyes. Fíli wonders if they are feeding him enough. Wonders if he sleeps.

Balin comes by to give Thorin’s regards. He’s wearing his right arm on a sling, but otherwise seems much as he was. Fíli seeks to know more about the comings and goings since the battle, but the best answer he gets is ‘later’.

He hears scattered tidbits when the rest of the Company find their way to his bedside. At first he’s glad of each familiar face that seems mostly hale, and of hearing what has passed when he lay here unknowing.

But the small room quickly grows over-warm with a dozen people crammed in. Even quiet talk from so many mouths melts into a single puddle of noise that sloshes off the walls and ceiling, all words and meaning lost. Fíli shucks off the blanket, but he still feels too hot, his skin breaking out in sweat of a sudden. A dull ache throbs slow behind his eyes, and he lets them fall closed. It doesn’t help, for the noise only seems magnified in the red-tinted darkness. Kíli asks if he’s feeling all right, and he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe the fever is not gone after all. He swallows, but his tongue is a dry heavy weight in his mouth.

The air feels too warm and too full of sound to fit into his chest.

Then he sees Ori standing by the door. The scribe frowns when their eyes meet, then turns away. He says something to Óin, but Fíli can’t hear it, he can barely hear himself think.

‘Oi!’ There’s an edge to the old healer’s voice that gets everyone’s attention. ‘You lot are done with visiting! Out with you afore you tire him out – or afore I throw you!’

And they leave; with good grace and sincere apologies and promises of returning. Kíli lingers; Óin has to frog-march him out the door. The healer returns, but not alone.

‘I’ll get everything set up next door. Stay put.’ Then he turns to Ori. ‘Sit on him if you have to.’

On reflex, Fíli mutters he’s old enough not to need a minder.

‘I don’t care if you call him your valet, _your highness_. But you won’t be getting anywhere without help. And anywhere means the bedpan and no further.’ Fíli would like to gainsay that, but can’t quite find the words that would fit.

The moment the door closes, Ori drops into the chair with a sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I know you’d want your peace and quiet after all that, but–’

‘You were pressed into service?’ Fíli finishes the thought for him, and gets a small smile in return.

‘You could say that.’

‘But it doesn’t matter, does it?’ And Fíli finds a smile of his own for Ori’s confused look. ‘You’re quite enough peace and quiet for me.’ he says, the first thing that crosses his mind.

And _oh_. Fíli had known Ori was the blushing kind – Kíli, the incorrigible flirt, had teased him horribly for a time, months ago now, when they still had a mind for joking around. But how is it Fíli never had noticed just how good it looked on him? Here and now, in this quiet room, softly lit by a single lamp again, he finds he can’t stop looking.

He takes note of the downcast eyes, of hands curled protectively around the book on Ori’s knees… and the last three fingers on the left hand jutting out stiffly, bound and splinted.

‘You’re hurt.’

Ori looks back up at him. ‘What… oh.’ He lifts his hand, gives it a negligent half-turn. ‘It’ll heal,’ he shrugs, for all that the back of his hand looks like one single bruise, purple seeping into green peeking under the edges of the bandage.

‘But your hand…’ Fíli is so grateful his own fingers have been spared worse than bruised knuckles.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Ori actually grins. ‘I’m right-handed, if you remember.’ He lifts his good hand, wriggles the fingers for him. ‘No broken bones in this one, see.’

‘Oh.’ Fíli realizes he’s biting his lip a moment too late. ‘Slipped my mind.’

‘Not your job to keep remembering everyone’s good hands.’

‘We should spar, a round or two might help me remember which hand you hold a blade in.’

Ori shrugs, and looks away again. ‘I don’t think it would be much of a match for you.’

‘Have you seen the state of me? By the time Óin lets me get up, I’ll be so wobbly on my feet you can knock me over with your little finger.’

‘Hardly.’ But Ori laughs, and the sound of it is as lovely to Fíli’s ears as oatmeal and honey were to his empty stomach.

‘I’ll prove you wrong yet.’ If not for else, then for another bright grin. ‘But enough of that; I’m curious; _what_ is the book?’

It’s a well-crafted compact thing that Ori lays onto his blanket. When Fíli turns the pages, there’s no dust he can see, which surprises him at first. On a second thought, it shouldn’t.

‘It’s a compendium of the old histories, or one of them. From a set of three. Um. A kind of primer, if you will.’

Fíli doesn’t need to look up now to know the colour of Ori’s face. He keeps his eyes on the neatly penned words and turns a leaf onto an illuminated page; the colours are slightly faded, and one corner of the page is bent, as if to mark a spot. ‘So you wanted to educate me?’ he teases, stealing a look at Ori from the corner of his eye.

Ori opens his mouth, then closes it. ‘What if I did?’ he finally says, as if he dares Fíli to protest.

‘I would say that you’re Balin’s apprentice down to the bone.’

‘Maybe.’ Ori says with a small smile. ‘I _like_ reading a well-written history.’

‘Excellent; then you would say yes if I asked you to read some more?’ Fíli turns to him with his most winsome smile. ‘Please? Even if I’m not dying anymore?’

Ori looks at him with narrowed eyes, then shrugs and takes the book back. ‘Might as well. Now where did I…’ he leafs through the pages and Fíli settles back against his pillow, lumps and all.

This time, Fíli knows the voice for a memory instead of a fever-dream. The soft-spoken words weave into a story of cold and winter and drakes pale as new ice, of a head of storm darker and higher than mountains. Fíli risks a sidelong glance at Ori. Without meaning to stare, he lets his eyes rest a while on the fine profile set out in copper and cream against a backdrop of grey-green stone. He startles when Ori suddenly looks back at him and pauses in mid-sentence. It’s barely long enough to notice, the inordinate silence between one word and the next, but long enough to speed Fíli’s heart. He thinks he can see a smile on the downturned face as Ori reads on, and feels warm; not the sharp sweaty heat of the fever, but gentle soft glow deep in his chest.

Now there could be a vein worth following, or something to while away the winter. Once he’s back on his feet. One way or the other, he’d be a fool not to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The difficulty in being bed-ridden is how to keep busy while keeping still.
> 
> And for some, staying is not an option.

True sleep, it seems, comes back to Fíli only a piece at a time. Once again, he blinks awake in a room quiet save but for the sounds of sleep, dark save but for a single lamp wound low. He looks up, hopeful, but can’t make out even the palest hint of daylight, such as it would be, vented down into the Mountain.

He sinks deeper into his nest of blankets and furs, and thinks at least some time has passed, for the air feels more chill than the last he woke. Kíli snores softly in the cot to his right, and lulled by the comfort of the familiar sound, Fíli lets himself drift. What startles him from his warm half-doze is the quiet… the absence of any sound from his left. Without a conscious thought he rolls to his side, and can’t quite bite back the groan, because of course it is his bad side, and his shoulder blazes white and crimson when he leans on his arm, but he needs to–

‘Fíli?’ Thorin’s voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes a soft silver-white glow as he turns them to Fíli.

‘What?’ Fíli breathes out sharp, the last traces of sleep washed away, and he feels relieved and stupid all at once. ‘I mean– I’m sorry if I woke you.’

‘You didn’t.’ Of course he hadn’t. For all Fíli knew, his uncle had been awake for who knows how long. ‘You’re not in pain, are you?’

‘No,’ Fíli hastens to reply. What just tore sharp through his wounded shoulder is dying down into a dull throb. Manageable, if he keeps still. ‘Are you?’ he asks. Because there’s something too quiet in the air, something that feels like it’s been pushed down to simmer under a lid. Even without seeing, he can remember the tight pale cast of his uncle’s face. ‘Should I tell Kíli to get–’

‘No need, let him sleep.’ That Kíli has not had much of that, namely sleep, of late, hangs unsaid in the darkened room. ‘When you lie down all day, you wake up in the night– that seems to be the way of it. Do not concern yourself.’

Fíli means to answer that, but is beset by a fit of coughing instead. It starts deep in his chest, and each rasping breath gets to draw in between makes his side sting worse than the last, and he reaches blindly for the water he knows is in his reach… he can just see the reflection off the glazed edge of the cup. He downs a gulp before he realizes his mistake. Not plain water, but the cloudy pale green swill Óin insisted he take ‘as necessary’. Gingerly, he swallows what’s left in his mouth, but the taste lingers, medicinal and sharp.

´Fee?’

Fíli grits his teeth at the groggy thick sleepiness of his brother’s question. ‘Fine,’ he makes himself whisper back calmly. ‘Just the cough.’ He sets the cup back carefully, but the tinkle it makes against the tabletop still rings loud in the soft quiet dark. ‘Go to sleep.’

After a while, the soft sound of well-earned rest resumes, but from Thorin’s side Fíli can hear but the stiff almost-silence of before. He sighs and lets his head fall back into the pillow. Nothing to it but try to sleep. He closes his eyes, opens them again, tries to outstare the gloom beyond the feeble circle of lamplight.

In the end, Óin’s chest medication does the job for him; Fíli can’t tell which he notices first: his thoughts turning fuzzy and slow, or the first deep breath that passes without even the slightest twinge. With the next breath, his eyes fall shut and stay that way.

    *    *    *

Fíli has just finished a late breakfast in bed when they have a visitor. Bilbo looks to be in traveling gear, short of a pack, with a thick coat hanging loosely off his shoulders. He stops to stand between Fíli’s cot and Thorin’s but it’s not the king he looks at when he speaks.

‘I’m going now,’ Bilbo says, and Fíli senses more than sees the tension in him, the hands squeezed to fists hidden in the long sleeves of his coat. ‘They say there’s more snow coming by the day, and I’ve put this off for too long already.’

‘But you had stayed this long; I thought–’ and Fíli catches himself, because he has not so much thought than hoped, and the pinched expression on Bilbo’s pale face does not give him much reason to.

‘I never meant to stay the winter,’ the hobbit says, ‘and if I’d had any sense in me I’d gone right after… right after the battle, if not for–’ his eyes flicker to Thorin, then back at Fíli– ‘unresolved matters.’

‘But you need not have–’ Fíli starts, but is cut short.

‘Yes, I needed to stay and I did,’ Bilbo snaps right back, ‘I didn’t come all this way with you to go back and find a letter waiting for me that you had succumbed to your wounds, buried with all the appropriate honours et cetera et cetera. Have a little more faith in me than that!’ He looks at Fíli when he speaks, but Fíli has the strange but distinct feeling that the words are not meant for him alone.

‘I’m sorry,’ Fíli says, when no one else seems inclined to speak, ‘and I hope you didn’t leave it too late. Who’s coming with you?’

Bilbo sniffs. ‘I think I can manage a stroll down to Dale by my own self.’

‘It’s no stroll knee-deep in snow.’ Fíli hears his brother mutter. Kíli perches at the foot of Fíli’s bed and idly folds one leg over the other. ‘And I mean my own knees, not hobbit-height.’

‘Master Baggins,’ Thorin says softly, ‘please allow us to have someone escort you down to Dale, if not further.’

‘No,’ Bilbo replies sharply, turning to speak straight to the king this time. ‘Much obliged, and I appreciate the kind offer, but no thank you. I know how many able hands there are in this mountain, and that’s few enough without setting someone to mind me. I’ll know my own way down. Your Majesty.’

‘It would be no imposition to look after a member of my Company, I assure you.’

‘It would be an imposition to me.’

‘I could have you leave here under guard–’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Bilbo snaps, taking a step forward rather than back, and Fíli wishes he would not have to stand – well, sit – witness to any of this.

‘Wouldn’t I?’

‘You will not,’ Bilbo repeats quietly. Fíli can’t see his face, but his uncle is wearing a stiff blank mask. He looks away. After a long moment, Thorin speaks again.

‘You do as you see fit, as you ever have,’ he says, all heat leached from his voice. ‘Goodbye, Master Burglar; may the road home be easy on you.’

‘Goodbye,’ Bilbo replies in the same cold tone, and turns back to Fíli and Kíli. ‘I’m sorry that this came about so sudden,’ he starts, but gets no further before Kíli grabs him in a hug that all but lifts him off his feet.

‘We’ll come visit,’ Kíli promises.

‘As soon as we’re able,’ Fíli echoes him.

‘Good to know, I’ll have time to hide the best china.’ The wry smile on Bilbo’s face is far from laughter, but it’s genuine, as is the gentle care he shows when he hugs Fíli in turn, careful not to jostle his bad arm, set in a sling to protect his healing shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself. I’ve had enough frights to last me two lifetimes.’

‘I promise,’ Fíli says, ‘if you do the same. How did you say you’re going to get from Dale on out?’

‘A boat downstream as far as Long Lake, then upstream to Mirkwood.’ He shrugs. ‘The king seems a decent enough fellow when you get talking to him; he offered me passage once already–’ Bilbo pauses. ‘Called me Elf-friend for some reason.’

Thorin snorts. Fíli lifts his eyebrows but only says that the plan sounds solid enough to him.

As soon as Kíli has closed the door after Bilbo, he spins on the spot to look at Fíli and their uncle. ‘Right,’ he says, ‘I’m going to see Balin. I’m sure he has some urgent message to get to Bard. Hammer and tongs, I’ll make up one if he doesn’t.’ He stops, hand on the door. ‘And I’ll ask Óin to have some chit come sit with you two.’

‘Go; we’ll be fine. And–’ Thorin pauses for a breath. ‘Thank you, Kíli.’

‘No need– I’ll look out for him!’

As soon as they’re left alone, Fíli is brimming full of questions, but looking at the tight grim face of his uncle, he finds he has neither the words nor the heart to ask them.

The ‘chit’ Óin sends to sit with them is a stout greybeard by the name of Flói with a long bandage plastered right across her face – it’s starting to dawn on Fíli is that Óin is mainly recruiting help from the walking wounded. He also guesses there might not be an entire nose underneath the bandage, but it’s none of his business to mention it.

Flói is apparently not the sort to chat idly with strangers (or royal strangers, as Fíli corrects himself), and moreso, she’s brought her work with her, which further discourages Fíli from any attempts at conversation. For some while, the only sounds in the room are the dry creak of thick leather and the soft hiss of breath through her teeth as she stitches the upper to the sole of a boot.

Fíli steals a glance at Thorin, but his uncle is making a very convincing attempt to look like he’s asleep, and it’s like to be good enough to fool their watcher, so Fíli leaves him to it.

He leans back and lets his gaze vander. The room is small, but larger than the one he had by himself. There are three cabinets built into the walls, and two vents in the wall facing his cot, two on the opposite, so east and west, lest there’s some very complex mirroring up in the lightwells. But what daylight they let through is very little. Could be that it’s clouded outside, could be there’s a blockage; the outer ends of the wells could be buried under a ton of stone and snow for all he knows. Fíli would barely need a chair to peer in and have some idea, the ceiling is not that high, but as he is, he could as well need wings.

But there’s one thing he can do. He stretches his good arm above his head, where the bed is pushed flush against the wall. The stone is cold and grainy under his fingertips as he dances them a quick tap-a-tap over the clear-hewn face. Flói looks up. Fíli gives her a small smile. ‘Stretching out, is all,’ he says, and she goes back to the mending job.

Fíli lets his eyes fall closed as he feels out the stone. Would be easier with both hands, but he can’t even lift the other above shoulder-level, much less higher. Still, is good enough.

The floor beneath them is hewn, not built, and it’s thick, a good two… no, two and a half feet, and Fíli wonders a moment, because that seems unnecessary, but then he feels the stone drop off to vast emptiness below and thinks he understands. He lets his hand rest in place, palm flush against the stone, and closes his eyes to try and bring back what he remembers of the layout of the kingdom. They had been in such a haste to explore the Mountain, with less than a week to use for it, and their main goals had been to ensure the state of the gates and to scrounge up anything usable. But that’s enough, enough to give Fíli back his bearings; he knows where he stands now, figuratively speaking, and it feels good.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees that Thorin has abandoned his pretense at sleep, and looks like to have watched him for some time.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘I think so,’ Fíli replies. ‘We’re above the Throne Room somewhere, and close enough to the surface to have outside light – plenty of it, if everything was working – this was some office, wasn’t it? Smaug wouldn’t bother with paperwork, that’s why it’s so clean…’

‘Good,’ Thorin smiles briefly, and Fíli can’t help but grin back. ‘Merchants’ Guild offices. Very convenient for us; there are many small rooms, and our own kitchens–’

‘But?’

‘But somewhat troublesome to keep warm without the forges going.’ Thorin nods at the tiny woodstove rigged with a length of pipe to one of the vents.

‘Already? We’re still, what, two months away from the Solstice?’

‘Nine weeks, give or take. But the true cold of winter comes only after Solstice up here; the Ered Luin winters do not compare.’

‘But how then will–’ Fíli hesitates at the sidelong glance Thorin casts at their minder, who, to her credit, has not looked up from her work. ‘How are the winters like then otherwise?’ he rephrases, trying to make his inquiry sound as casual as possible, as if he’s only asking his uncle for a story to while away their bed-ridden hours, and not changing the subject away from something Thorin would not discuss in front of just anyone. ‘Will it snow a lot as well?’

Thorin strokes his beard and seems to think back. ‘Not necessarily; if the wind turns north, it will be bitter cold, but dry. But it would be a rare winter that we had as little snow as is usual in Ered Luin. And we would be glad for it if we had more.’

‘How so?’

‘Ease of transport,’ Thorin shrugs, ‘a sledge moves faster and easier than any wagon. We used to have snow-roads going both North and East when I was a lad, and the Winter market at Solstice was, if not as grand as what they held in Esgaroth each summer, a grand affair all the same. People would come from near and far: from the Iron Hills, from Esgaroth and Dale… from East even, Rhûn and beyond – and yes, even from Mirkwood at times.’ Thorin stares at the blank wall opposite as if he could see through it and into memory. ‘It was an easier time,’ he says slowly, ‘more forgiving, more agreeable to shared merriment.’ And he’s smiling as he continues the tale. ‘This was the time, Fíli, when your mother was but a pebble, and she would beg and beg and beg for someone to take her to see the Winter Market – she was too young to be allowed on her own, you see – and I remember taking her a time or two. She would make me get her roasted almonds; the kind they made with spice and honey… I haven’t had any since.’

Thorin stops suddenly, then, to Fíli’s surprise, he chuckles. ‘I had forgotten all about that,’ he says. ‘You see, there were also all kinds of entertainment: games of strength and skill, and performers – and your mother, well, she was so small then, this bare chip of a thing who wanted to see everything. So she would nag at me until I let her sit on my shoulders – Dwalin would not do, even if he was taller than me already – and you can imagine the state of her hands after eating all those roasted almonds? I would spend the rest of the evening in bath, to get the honey out of my hair.’

Fíli laughs at the memory with him. It feels precious, to have been shared this story, for he can count with one hand the times he has ever heard his uncle or his mother speak of their life in Erebor. If they have ever been wistful, it has been in the company of their fellow exiles, not in front of the children who have never even set eyes on the Mountain. And in a way, this makes him feel half like a child again, listening to his uncle telling a story, wrapped up in blankets in a small room that’s barely warm enough.

‘So what else would you do for wintering? I’m sure it wasn't all games and leisure.’

Thorin shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t. It was much the same as what you’ve used to. Some would go hunting after new snow when the tracking was good, and most who crafted would have some slow project set aside for winter to keep them busy. Any who meant to head out to trade or to learn a craft come springtime would plan and make arrangements. Or you could spend the winter visiting; I spent more than a few winters at the Iron Hills with Dáin’s family, and the other way around.’

‘It doesn’t sound half bad.’

‘No, no it wasn’t.’ Thorin says, and the hard knot of worry in Fíli’s chest loosens a bit on seeing his uncle at ease like this, even if the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘It was good. And will be so again.’

    *    *    *

The day passes slow with nothing to do, and Fíli soon regrets not having asked Ori to leave him with something to read the previous day. He dozes off for a while before supper, and wakes to the clatter of plates and mugs.

‘I brought my own share, too– you don’t mind, do you?’

‘Your company is always welcome here, Bofur,’ Fíli hears Thorin say and nods his own assent, fighting off a yawn.

‘Suppertime already?’ he asks. It’s just the three of them in the room. Kíli should have been back by now.

‘It’s almost sundown outside, if not past.’ Bofur lifts a steaming bowl towards him. ‘Need any help?’

Fíli assures him that he can, in fact, sit up on his own, and settles the bowl carefully in the crook of his arm, then tucks in. The food is simple and good, but after a while he frowns and twiddles his spoon in the remains of the thick stew, chasing bits of onion and errant beans. ‘How does this taste of bacon when I can’t find any?’

‘It’s the ghost of bacon you taste– or that’s what Bom calls it. Onion fried in leftover bacon grease. Waste not, want not, eh?’

‘Clever. But I do miss the bacon.’

‘Your wish is noted, your highness,’ Bofur grins, ‘maybe next time.’ But only the right side of his mouth turns up. The left side of his face is still puffed purple fading to sickly green, with grey thread criss-crossing the welt high on his cheek where the skin had split open. ‘An elbow,’ he had said yesterday, ‘a beginner’s mistake.’

‘Here’s to hoping,’ Fíli empties his mug. It’s plain water, and he thinks it might be some time they have aught else.

Bofur pushes his chair away from the table. ‘And now for the entertainment,’ he says. He crosses the room and drops a small satchel in Fíli’s lap. ‘Special delivery.’

Fíli opens the flap and can’t help smiling. He pulls out the book from the day before, and two companion volumes. ‘Ori?’ he asks, and strokes a finger along the back of the first book, ‘Ori sent me these?’

‘Who else?’ Bofur asks back. ‘Dig deeper.’

Fíli lifts out a small pouch of soft leather. It’s heavy for its size, and the contents roll against one another with a dull clink when he tips it over. Round flat pieces of polished stone spill onto the blanket, some black, some white. ‘Tafl pieces?’

‘There ought to be a board in there, too.’ Bofur reaches over to rummage in the near-empty satchel and comes up with a rolled-up tube of leather maybe one handspan and half in length. ‘Here.’ He unrolls the leather, then turns it over to show both sides, each with a neatly drawn board of alternating black and plain squares, corners and centre marked with chunky stars. ‘Eleven by eleven on this side, nine by nine on the other, the kind they play in the Iron Hills, or so I’m told– Dwalin said you play both.’

‘Dwalin?’

‘Aye, he’s the one who scrounged up the pieces from the guardhouse up front– the board is new though. There are some mighty pretty ones in the treasury, but–’ Bofur stops.

Fíli throws a quick glance at Thorin, who has yet to say a word after they finished eating.

‘I know there are,’ Thorin says, ‘but the board does not make the game.’

Fíli feels the tension unravel as soon as it had mounted. He traces the edge of the board with one finger and nods at Bofur. ‘Do you play?’

Bofur shrugs. ‘As much and little as anyone. But if you ask me, I’m more for a game of dice, though.’ He goes to retrieve the tray used for supper and sets it on the bed. ‘Which side?’ he asks, the square of leather held aloft.

‘Iron Hills.’

‘Ouch, the tougher one.’

‘Bofur,’ Thorin says, ‘if I call the moves, will you move the pieces for me?’

‘Not fair,’ Fíli protests, ‘two against one!’

‘Hey!’ Bofur lifts up both hands. ‘I hardly count as one; barely got past fox and geese, me!’

‘Will you play, Fíli?’

It’s been too long for Fíli to refuse. Playing by proxy goes surprisingly smoothly. Thorin chooses to play defense, as he would. Fíli gives no quarter, expects none. To begin with, he manages to establish what he thinks is a fairly tight perimeter guard– only to have Thorin lure him into making an opening. Once his uncle gets a second piece behind his lines, Fíli is in trouble. He’s glad when they are interrupted, because it gives him time to think. There’s a runner just come from Dale; the message is from Kíli saying he’ll be seeing Bilbo as far as Long Lake. The round-trip will take him several days if the weather holds, longer if not.

Thorin does not send a reply, but Fíli can tell he’s pleased with the news. They play on. Fíli thinks he puts up a decent fight, but eventually he’s stuck staring at the board where he has only bad choices: an immediate defeat in two moves, and if he blocks that, the same, but it will take his uncle a few moves more. He hovers his hand over one black piece, then simply pushes it into the next square over, which does nothing for his position.

‘Your win.’

‘Don’t yield too easily,’ his uncle says.

Fíli shrugs. ‘It was inevitable.’

‘No. There was a way out, or at the very least one I can think of. Not easy, as it might be thwarted, nor quick, but there. Think on it.’

When Bofur has gone – glad, as he says, not to have played himself – Fíli sets out to read. He finds the tale he already heard, and as he leafs through it, a minuscule scrap of paper falls out from between the pages. ‘To keep you company,’ it reads in sharp cramped letters. Fíli smiles and tucks the note safely back into the book. When he reads on, he finds himself thinking how nice it would be to listen to someone else reading. At least from time to time.

It’s when he should sleep when the game comes back to him, and so he turns Thorin’s puzzle over and over in his head late into the night. Just before falling asleep he thinks he might have solved it, but come morning, he has forgotten how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm. There should have been more of an actual plot, but well, there's worldbuilding! (Also, Thorin would not shut up, which was strange and unusual.)
> 
> Also sorry about the lack of anything even approaching romantic action... I'm getting there later, promise!
> 
> I think I've stolen the idea of tafl (or hnefatafl) as a dwarven game from TAFKAB's [Adab ned Orthad Anor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6848764/chapters/15633058). I'm a very green new player myself, so any oddities fall to that.
> 
> I've used the version where the defending player (king) wins by getting the king to any corner of the board, and the attacking player (assasins) wins by capturing the king. (There are several variants; you can play this one [here](http://www.lutanho.net/play/hnefatafl.html).)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli has had enough of playing a good patient. He still has a working brain, after all, and there's work to be done.
> 
> It goes just about as well as can be expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this chapter is for [pangur_pangur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pangur_pangur), who is a dear friend, an all-around wonderful person and is having a birthday today. Hope you like it!
> 
> And second, the Author Notes proper:
> 
> Thing one: **I've upped the rating and employed an Archive Warning (for Graphic Depictions of Violence)**. Also please note a couple of new tags. This is because I'm a careful sort and don't want to accidentally upset anyone. The whole fuss is about a single-paragraph-flashback, but I decided better to be safe than sorry.
> 
> Thing two: I'm afraid Óin does not mince his words when giving a ~~sermon~~ lecture. Imho, it's not too bad, but my beta said 'ew', so I thought I should warn you.

Kíli takes six days coming back. After the first two, Fíli has quite had his fill of bed rest. He’s finished only the first one of Ori’s books, and almost anyone he cares to ask will play a round of tafl with him, but that can only distract him so far from the restless urge to be _doing_ , instead of lying around like a sack of barley waiting to be cooked.

He should not find comfort in another’s injury, but as it is, someone needs to take notes for Balin until his arm is done healing, and Thorin needs to meet up with his advisor, so Fíli gets to see Ori for a bit each day, even if he has no time to stay and chat. Fíli envies him his busy existence.

On the third morning since Kíli went down to Dale with Bilbo, Fíli wakes to see a faintest hint of pale sunlight slanting down into the room, and there’s no if and when about it: he’ll be getting up today.

Putting that thought into action, however, takes more than mere resolve. The Company has pitched in to take Kíli’s watch both day and night, and Fíli’s glad for it; as strange as his brother’s absence feels, it would be far worse to have an unknown take his place. The past night had been Bofur’s turn, but there’s someone at the door before Fíli can even think of asking for his help, and the miner lets the kitchen runner into the room and leaves on some excuse Fíli can’t quite catch. But he’s too surprised to mind much.

‘I thought you were stuck helping out Balin?’ he blurts out and immediately wishes he could swallow his tongue whole, because he should have managed a ‘good morning’ at the very least. It’s a blessed thing Kíli is not around.

‘Morning,’ Ori replies to the greeting-that-wasn’t and sets the breakfast tray on the table. He doesn’t quite laugh, but his eyes crinkle in a way that makes Fíli smile back without a conscious thought. ‘And no,’ Ori continues, ‘there _are_ others who can take notes and deliver reports.’

‘So you ended up as a kitchen runner? What did you draw – the shortest straw?’

This time, Ori does laugh. ‘Not by far. We draw unskilled work by proper lots, you know, numbered.’

Fíli frowns. ‘Unskilled work?’ If Ori’s anything, it’s not unskilled.

‘Well, it’s not like I’d be much use at surveying or construction – I don’t have the feel for it like you do.’ Ori shrugs and uncovers the basket of still-steaming bread. ‘At least in the kitchen I know my way around.’

Fíli waits while he sets up a breakfast in bed for Thorin, and pushes the blankets aside as soon as Ori turns back to him. ‘I’ll eat at the table,’ he says, ‘help me up.’

When Ori starts to tell him no, Fíli simply manoeuvres his legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’m allowed to sit. What does it matter if I sit at the table instead of here?’ The thick drowsiness brought on by Óin’s ‘as necessary’ draught has faded over the night: his knee aches dully, and he needs to move with care so as not to jar his shoulder, but he’s itching in his very skin to be free of his cocoon of fur and wool, if only long enough to break his fast. He sees Ori glance at Thorin’s direction, and shakes his head. ‘My call to make, not his.’

‘He’s right,’ Thorin says, and Fíli can’t deny he expected more of an argument. ‘I’m not the master of him, not in this.’

‘Please? I’m getting up, with your help or without, but I think it would be easier if you lent a hand.’

‘It will be my head Óin will want on a platter,’ Ori says tightly, then sighs. ‘But I’ll take that chance.’ He holds up a finger. ‘Wait a bit.’

Wood screeches violently against stone when he leans his weight into the table and pushes the whole thing closer to Fíli’s bed. Then he sets a chair ready, maybe three feet away from the footboard. ‘All right,’ he says and sits down beside Fíli. ‘Take it slow.’

Fíli nods and wraps his good arm over Ori’s shoulders. The floor feels cool to the soles of his feet even through the stockings.

‘Extra socks,’ he hears Ori mutter under his breath. ‘On three,’ he says aloud.

Fíli wants to tell him to stop making a fuss. He’s got up for the necessaries since he woke, hasn’t he? He bites the inside of his cheek and nods.

They stand up on three, careful and smooth. Fíli blinks and waits for the black spots to clear away, and then he has both his feet under him, even if all of his weight rests on the right one. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I say I can get there in three hops.’

Ori eases his hold around Fíli’s middle to firm instead of painfully tight. ‘I say four. At least. And I’m not betting you on it.’

Had there been a wager, Fíli would have lost right at the outset. He hadn’t realized the impact would jar his ribs and shoulder so, but of course it would. He leans heavily into Ori’s side and swears.

‘Fíli?’

‘A moment,’ he manages, taking quick, shallow breaths. ‘Let’s try something else.’ And what he had thought was an untenable idea, turns out to be feasible: the way Óin had gone on about it, Fíli had been certain his bad leg would not hold his weight, but he manages those few shuffling steps easily enough. He sinks into the chair, heart hammering, knee throbbing, wincing at each too-deep breath, but it’s worth the trouble. He glances at Thorin, bed-bound going on three weeks as far as he knows, and wonders where he finds the patience.

Ori nudges at his elbow, and Fíli sees him holding out another chair. ‘Put your leg up.’

Fíli does, and sits up straighter at Ori’s concerned expression, smile coming to his own face easy and unbidden. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

It’s twice-baked beans over sourdough bread, a narrow wedge of sharp cheese and some dried fruit, and it all tastes so much better sitting in a proper chair than propped up in the bed. Across the table from him, Ori is carefully emptying out his satchel: there are several piles of wax tablets and a single thin sheaf of paper. ‘Reports?’ Fíli asks.

Ori nods absently. ‘Saving Balin the trip.’ When Fíli raps at the tabletop to get his attention, he looks up with a vaguely annoyed air.

‘Want a bite?’ Fíli offers the last piece of cheese speared to the tip of his knife.

‘I already had breakfast, and you’re recovering,’ Ori hesitates, but leans a bit forward all the same.

‘And you’re running yourself ragged. A bite of cheese is neither here nor there. Favour for a favour?’

‘If you insist. But don’t think you can go bribing me with food.’ Ori pares the cheese off the knife and pops it into his mouth.

‘Then I’ll have to think up something else.’ Fíli quips with a wink and allows himself the smallest smirk at the way Ori’s eyes widen.

‘If you two are quite finished, I would have look at those reports,’ Thorin says drily, and Fíli can’t believe that for a moment he had forgotten they had company.

Ori clears his throat and quickly scoots back, spots of colour burning on his cheeks. ‘Yes– there’s the usual: updated rosters, the state of the victuals as of yesterday, and the figures from the infirmary, but then there are also some new survey reports.’ He picks the topmost paper from the pile. ‘The team we sent out to gauge the gates finished last night. It appears there’s a choice of two minor gates that could be reopened with the people and supplies we have now.’

Thorin holds out his hand. ‘Let me see.’

Fíli feels his good hand clench against the smooth varnished grain of the wood, his fine breakfast suddenly sitting ill in his stomach. This would be something he could help with: surveying the damage and figuring out repairs. It will be a busy winter they have ahead of them, for surely their people will start arriving, come springtime, and he would not settle families and children in these cold and lightless halls. His eyes are drawn to the closed door, and he’s reminded of dungeons.

Someone is saying his name in a way that suggests a repeated attempt. ‘Huh? Sorry,’ Fíi mumbles. ‘You were saying?’

‘I asked for your opinion,’ Thorin says patiently. ‘I’m thinking we should open the Rust Gate, on the north-east side. That would put us directly on the route to the Iron Hills, and also give us a good vantage point for starting further work inside the mountain. I would have you look into it and tell me if there’s something that needs more consideration before we commit to it.’

It’s a simple request – but once Fíli has had a moment to think, it’s also distinctly odd. ‘But if this is the surveyors’ overview–’ he then says, ‘surely there was a mason with them; you would be better served asking them, they’ve seen all this–’ he taps at the paper– ‘for themselves.’ _And I haven’t,_ he doesn’t add, _and I won’t have you come to me for support only because I’m kin. Or worse, out of pity._

‘No, I’m afraid they didn’t,’ Thorin says, ‘have a mason, that is. To my knowledge _you_ are the most senior stonemason in the Mountain.’

This makes Fíli, who had barely made it into a journeyman before they set out from Ered Luin, laugh aloud in startled surprise. ‘Truly?’

‘Dáin brought soldiers, not engineers. No doubt people of skill will come later, perhaps with the supplies, but at present you’re the only one with any formal training, barring one apprentice.’

‘Frár,’ Ori supplies. ‘His master passed some days after the battle, but he stayed.’

That gives Fíli pause. ‘Fair enough,’ he replies with a nod. ‘Ori – do you have anything more from the surveyors, anything at all about the halls near the Rust Gate, and the other option? Not only same level, but also the one above and the one below, if there’s one – I’m going to need everything.’ _Since I can’t go and see for myself._

There is something very satisfying in the way the stacked tablets clack when Ori pushes the pile across the table, the rustle of papers when Fíli leafs through them. However, as his eyes skim over text and sketches and figures, some half-formed realization keeps flickering at the back of his mind, and it takes him a while to parse it out. ‘We’re not keeping you from anything?’ he finally asks Ori. ‘Because you said you were on the kitchen roll.’

‘Finished with that,’ Ori says without looking up, quill scritching on coarse paper as he adds up a column of numbers with the aid of a small abacus. ‘You were the last stop of the round.’

‘But–’

‘And I had to get this done anyway – well, Balin needs to get this done – and Óin needed someone to sit with you, so…’ Ori blows gently on the fresh-written sheet before picking up an empty slate and starting to jot down another set of figures on it: some preliminary calculation, by the looks of it. His eyes are on the work and he looks completely absorbed.

 _But_ , Fíli thinks. If Balin has anything to do with rosters, he wouldn’t have anyone working night and day back to back. So Ori himself must have–

‘Nearly fooled me,’ he says softly. Ori looks up, startled, and makes to speak, but Fíli beats him to it. ‘You really did draw the shortest straw, didn’t you.’

Ori lets out a small breath, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. ‘The very worst one,’ he says.

‘My gain,’ Fíli replies, and would say more if only they were alone in the room. As things stand, he wills himself to concentrate on the work in front of him. But if he sneaks a glance on occasion– well, one does need a pause every now and then.

It’s almost like stepping out into the Mountain without ever leaving his seat. However, for the large part it also assumes knowledge of the past two weeks Fíli has spent drifting in and out of sleep. So he prods his uncle to fill in the blanks.

The Front Gate, he learns, has been once again sealed against inclement weather and uninvited visitors by a sheer wall of stonework, leaving the moving of people and things in and out of the Mountain a matter of a rope ladder and a winch and pulley. Refashioning the gate proper will be the work of years to come, and the present matter takes on a more urgent edge in his mind; whatever supplies Dáin will be able to send could certainly be hauled up the curtain wall, but any of the side gates, smaller, yet large enough to admit a wagon and four, would be an infinitely more practical option.

On the other hand, it’s an exercise in frustration. A lot of what he reads is more in a manner of shorthand to jog the writer’s own memory than a proper report, and while he can deduce much, with Ori’s help with the worst chicken scratch, Fíli would have a good look himself if he had his way. He does not distrust these people, not as such, but apart from Bofur – and Nori, for some reason – they are only names to him, and he would work with more confidence if he could feel the damaged stone beneath his own hands, walk the intact halls on his two feet–

 _Soon,_ he promises himself as he confirms to Thorin that the Rust Gate would be their best option, and offers to start planning ahead without being asked, because it needs to be done, and he has nothing but time. Even if it’s on a larger scale he’s ever attempted. He had thought his first journeyman’s job would be a house, maybe some extension work, a bridge somewhere. Not figuring out how to refit entire halls. The prospect is equal parts daunting and exciting, and he would love nothing more.

 _Not tomorrow,_ he concedes as he puts Ori to question about all these unknown people, feeling vaguely uneasy for pestering him so, but lacking Balin’s rosters the scribe is his best source of information, and slowly the blank page before him fills with details on able hands to meet the demands of the preliminary plan he’s outlined.

What they need to accomplish is not complicated: an open gateway, some means to close it, then light and warmth and shelter. Access to water, somewhere to cook. _Sanitation_ , underlined twice. Necessities for their people. _His_ people one day, if Mahal is kind, but not for a long time yet.

It’s also far too simple.

His plan is but a string of words on paper, idle sketches that lack both form and substance. Fíli needs to meet with the people who have seen and touched what the figures and notes only hint at. They will be able to tell him what’s feasible, by building over the scaffolding of his scribblings, and perhaps help him see where he can’t yet go, envision what he cannot yet touch.

 _A few days more,_ he assures himself. _Two at the most._

Finally he’s done as much as he can with what he has at hand, and catches himself doodling meaningless shapes on the tabletop with the blunt end of a stylus, watching Ori. How his hair falls to his eyes, and how he bites his lip when he concentrates. It’s a fine distraction, but that’s no excuse for Fíli to be staring like some beardless twit with his first fancy. With an effort he turns away, trying to make it look like he’s easing a crick in his neck. A yawn catches him unawares, and his bed looks inviting for a change. He considers the distance. He had made it without much trouble the first time, hadn’t he? _Let’s see the luck of the brave,_ he thinks, pushes the chair back and stands up.

The whole room turns with a sickening lurch, and a wave of darkness rushes up and drowns out his vision. He throws his arms out for balance, forgetting, and cries out when pain pours hot from his left shoulder and down his arm. His good hand grabs at something – the back of the chair – but it topples, and he hits the floor, bad side first.

He blinks and blinks, until the stars stop dancing atop the smooth stone beneath him, but that’s all he can do, curled tight on himself. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts.

‘Fíli?’

There’s a gentle squeeze to his good shoulder, and Ori is kneeling right there in front of him, his eyes wide with concern.

‘Are you all right?’

‘No!’ And it comes out more like a growl than a word. ‘Fuck. No.’

‘Sorry.’ Ori looks away. ‘Of course. You think you can get up if I help?’

Not much of a choice there. Not unless he wants to be bodily lifted by Ori and whoever he ropes up to aid him. No. Fíli grabs the edge of the mattress with one hand. Broken or in pain, he will get up from this damned floor.

He tries to shake off Ori’s steadying hands, pushes himself up on one leg and topples onto the bed. He buries his face in the pillow, his own ragged breaths (too rapid, too shallow) drowning out all other sound. In the red-dark privacy behind his eyes he lets out a litany of curses he hasn’t got the air for. He knows he’s built stronger than this. He _thought_ he was built stronger than this.

 _But he can’t even stand up under his own power._ Angry tears prickle hot beneath his closed lids, but quick at their heels shame burns even brighter, for his pride won’t stand for him to whine over his hurts like a pebble with a scraped knee. He forces himself to take slow even breaths, and as the pain dulls down some, it becomes easier.

Beside him, the mattress dips as someone sits on the bed.

‘I don’t really think it’s good for your shoulder to lie on it like that.’ Ori’s voice is even and matter-of-fact. Fíli groans, but rolls onto his back regardless.

‘Better?’

In fact, it’s worse, but Fíli doesn’t say it, hoping instead that if he lies still long enough, the insistent throbbing at his shoulder might eventually cease. When Ori holds a clay cup in front of him, he knows what it is, and doesn’t want it.

‘Fíli, please.’ And now Ori sounds exasperated. ‘You’re not breathing properly. I can hear it.’

‘I hate it. It makes me feel like I’m drunk. I can do without.’

‘You need to rest.’ That’s Thorin, and it sets Fíli’s teeth on edge to be talked like a child.

‘As much as you! If you– if you see fit to rule this mountain from your bed, then do not _dare_ to tell me that– that I should rest and not help you! My mother raised me better than that!’ He’s pushed himself upright without noticing, and the effort of shouting stings at his side, but he’s angry enough to ignore it.

‘You have suffered enough injury in my service, _nidoyel_.’ And it’s the remorse in Thorin’s voice that shames Fíli into compliance. ‘I would rather do without, than have you do yourself any lasting harm.’

Fíli sighs and drops his head. ‘I suppose you have to tell Óin,’ he says and accepts the cup from Ori.

‘I won’t if you ask me not to.’

There’s a strained quality to Ori’s voice, a tight cast to his features that makes Fíli think again. He forces a small smile around the bitter taste of the medicine and shakes his head. ‘Let it be on my head.’

He takes only enough to dull the edge of the pain, but when he’s lying down, even that small amount makes him drowsy, as he knew it would.

 

* * *

 

Fíli wakes to see a shadowy form leaning over him, blocking out the light, and then there’s a ringing backhand slap across his face.

‘You reckless oaf! Blundering, bare-faced fool!’ Fíli blinks, and the pale blob with grey squiggles resolves itself to Óin’s face, a hand’s breadth from his own. ‘Which of us is the deaf one? I said stay put! I have half a mind to strap you to that bed!’

Fíli opens his mouth to speak, but is promptly silenced by a glare that would put his mother to shame. ‘Sit up so I can get a look at you.’

Óin unwraps the top layer of the bandages swathing his shoulder, huffs, and probes at his collarbone with none-too-gentle fingers, then unwraps the rest down to the skin.

‘It’s not worse. But not from the lack of trying, if I heard right.’

‘Ori’s not to blame, Fíli says quickly, ‘I talked him into helping me.’

‘I’m sure you did. Because you seem to be one of those people–’ the healer gives him a sour look– ‘who think they know better than me.’

‘No. I only… overestimated my strength.’

‘Ha! You were sick with wound fever for over a week – think you’d be all better overnight?’

‘I didn’t–’ Fíli stops himself. ‘I was fine the first I got up–’ he catches Ori muttering something like ‘swaying’ on the other side of the bed.

‘I’m sure you were,’ Óin says, dry as bone. ‘The same way I’m sure you want to have use of that arm again. Mahal’s balls, lad,’ he huffs, and pulls the fresh dressing tighter than Fíli thinks is absolutely necessary, ‘you blocked a blade with that collarbone. It was in three bits that I could see, maybe more that I couldn’t, and it won’t ever start knitting back together if you bang it about.

Óin keeps talking, but his voice drones out into low background buzz – sharp edges, bleeding, luck – as Fíli is abruptly yanked back to hearing the distinct crunch of steel jamming into bone, and the nauseating surge of white-hot agony when the spear point twists free. He strikes down on instinct, and shears clean through the shaft, leaving the goblin clutching at a stub of wood, screeching as its fellows obligingly push it forward into the reach of Fíli’s single remaining sword. His shoulder beats in time to his heart, and he tucks his left arm tight to his side. Something grinds under his skin, sending out fresh sparks of pain. But he dare not let his blade still. Thorin was still speaking only moments before, so maybe... Blood is sticking his clothes into his skin beneath the armour, and he can feel it starting to pool warm and wet in the crook of his elbow–

‘Fíli?’

‘You there, lad?’

Fíli shakes his head to clear it, draws a quick breath. ‘Sorry– lost in my own head.’ He glances aside to see Thorin watching him with a look of quiet understanding on his face, and gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

‘I said let me see that leg of yours,’ Óin repeats with unexpected patience.

Fíli makes a face when he sees the angry red weal at the side of his left knee.

‘This is new, is it not?’

‘Of course it is!’ Fíli snaps. ‘The damn thing gave out.’

‘It gave out when you were told _not_ to put any weight on it, did it now?’ Óin tsks. ‘You think I have people to spare to have someone helping you if you didn’t need it?’ he asks without leaving Fíli the time to reply. ‘On your side.’

Fíli can’t really see the back of his own knee, no more than he can remember the arrow – or more of a dart, as he has been told, a prick of a wound so small as to be laughed off, only it had gone bad.

‘I think it looks better,’ Ori comments. ‘Or better than it was, at least.’

‘It’s finally healing clean, that’s what it’s doing,’ Óin admits. ‘But give it a week before you start tromping around the mountain.’

‘ _A week?_ No. I’m not lying here another week, I have a job to do!’

Óin narrows his eyes and looks at him for a long moment. ‘A job?’ he asks slowly.

‘Yes.’ _And_ _I will do it no matter what you say,_ Fíli thinks, and knows his face says as much. He does not care.

‘We’re opening the Rust Gate for use of Dáin’s supply caravans as and when they come, and starting work on the nearby halls. Fíli’s in charge for the moment.’

Fíli would smile to see Óin’s scowl change direction, if he wasn’t gulping at Thorin’s glib ‘in charge’.

‘Begging your pardon, but– **have you taken a complete leave of your senses?** ’

‘I assure you I have not. Fíli has the head for the planning, he’s willing– and there’s an able prentice to serve as his runner.’

‘I don’t give a tinker’s damn if he’s willing– he’s my patient and he can’t even stand up straight!’

‘He’s recovering, or so you said yourself. I’m afraid idleness is a luxury we can ill afford at the moment.’

‘He was bled white when they brought him, or have you forgotten? And that was before the fever.’ Óin’s tone is sharp and cold in a way Fíli has rarely heard before. ‘If you don’t have even one whit of sense left to spare yourself, cousin, then at least don’t make others suffer the same.’

‘It’s not his decision whether I accept or not, nor is is yours, Óin. I’m well enough to know my own mind.’ It’s very satisfying to see how his two elders startle when reminded that the crux of their argument can speak for himself, and Fíli allows himself a brief moment of quiet pride.

Óin heaves a resigned sigh, and Fíli can hear him mutter something akin to ‘bloody pair of fools’. ‘Very well, Master Builder,’ he says aloud, ‘you say you would walk, but that your knee buckled under you. But it bore weight at first, did it not?’

‘For a few steps, yes.’

Óin strokes his beard, frowning in thought. ‘Knees,’ he says finally, ‘are finicky things. Like as not, you’ve broken some fiddly bits inside; fallen on it or got it twisted somehow– it makes no matter,’ he adds quickly when Fíli makes to say he has no idea when or how. ‘There’s aught to be done but to let it mend on its own – as much as it will mend. If that was the only hurt you got, I would say to walk if you can and rest when you must. As it’s not, I say you wait a few more days to get your strength back.’

‘Two days?’

‘Could make it a week,’ Óin counters. ‘Two days, _if_ –’ he points with the tapering end of his hearing trumpet for emphasis– ‘if you can stand up by yourself. And you start slow. That means no wandering off on your own. Understood?’

Fíli nods eagerly. Two days is better than a week. And ‘slow’ could mean slowly inching out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nidoyel_ – boy of all boys
> 
> And once more, many thanks to Saraste for the beta. You're a gem.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me [at tumblr](https://katajainen.tumblr.com/).


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